Fading Light
by mistspinner
Summary: The first time Canada meets Prussia, it is at sword's point. Prussia/Canada


_My candle burns at both ends _

_It will not last the night _

_But, ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -_

_It gives a lovely light!_

_- _Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

><p>Versailles<p>

The first time Canada meets Prussia, it is at sword point.

There is shock, and then there is paralyzing fear and, briefly, the thought _oh shit oh shit I am going to die_ -

And then shock again when the other nation withdraws the knife.

"You see that?" Gilbert Beilschmidt shouts in the silence, pale hair wild as he whirls around, steel gleaming unevenly in his hand and in his eyes. "See that, you bastards? You lay a hand on my brother, and little Canada there -" brief glance backwards, pointed tip of a sword flung backwards to point (precariously close) at Matthew, "won't be moving for quite some -"

Which is when the other nations move.

Prussia side-sweeps the first attacks with ease, laughs as - with one stroke - he flings the sword out of the France's arm, steps back and kicks England away, grins and laughs, attacks and counterattacks and dances just out of reach. Looking for all his deadly grace like an angel, some pale angel of death -

Bullets, however, are something even knights cannot dodge.

And as Prussia falls to his knees, Alfred grabs the nation by the collar, shoves snarling red eyes to snarling blue ones.

"Listen, you _bastard," _Alfred hissed, "if you touch another _hair _on my brother's head, you sick little fucker, there's a whole lot of other places I can shoot you. And I promise you, _I will._"

Alfred drops Prussia then, flinging the other nation across the golden tiles so hard that the sound resonates, echoes in the empty spaces of the gilt palace that is Versailles.

With a contemptuous glare, Alfred turns around, eyes softening as he strides towards Matthew.

"Funny," Prussia sneers, slowly lifting his face from the ground, "I thought only cowards shot their opponents."

"And I thought only idiots bring a knife to a gun fight," Alfred said, not even turning around as he responded. "Go to hell, Beilschmidt."

"They tried to make me," Prussia says, sitting now, still smiling as the other nations watched him. "Doesn't seem to work much now, does it?" There is blood on gold tiles now, red to match the blood-red of sparkling eyes.

"Mattie?" Alfred asks, turning to shoot Prussia a cold glance. "How hard do you want me to hit this bastard here? Hard enough until he apologizes, does that sound right?"

"_Non," _France says, eyes mirthless and merciless as he stood up. "You are strong, America, but this _salop," _white gloved finger pointing at Prussia, "deserves something a little more imaginative, _oui? _I can demonstrate -"

"Oh, _will you, _Francis?" Prussia asked, slowly standing up, one hand at his side, the blood seeping through pale fingers, red on white. The other, trembling, shaking ever-so-slightly as it reached for down for the dagger at his side. "Useless little shit you are, even _I_ never thought -"

France raised his sword, and Prussia smirked -

"_Stop."_

A word, quiet, and suddenly everyone was staring at him.

"Matthew?" Arthur's voice, soft, quiet. Calming, as though he were talking to a dog, whimpering in a thunderstorm. Or as though he were a child again, a colony once more and not the adolescent near-independent nation he was now. "Matthew, my lad, this man -"

"Please stop." A deep breath, a voice steadying itself, dusty from rare use. But, calm, calm. He was a nation (nearly) now, and he must be calm. Steady. Sure.

"Don't hurt him."

Another silence.

And then, slowly, slowly, the soft susurrus of swords being sheathed, guns slipping into leather. Wary eyes, slowly turning away from the blood-stained figure in the center of the room.

"C'mon, Mattie," Alfred says, and Canada is beyond relieved to see that the coldness in his brother's eyes is gone, turned to liquid blue and kindness. "Let's go home."

Matthew nods, and forces himself to take his eyes off Prussia's still form. There is a deadliness to the lack of motion, like the calm before the storm.

And as they leave it behind - leave all the gilt and glass, all the gold and gardens of Versailles behind - the storm breaks.

"You _bastards," _Prussia shouts, "I could take you on! All of you! You fucking _cowards -"_

"Save your breath, Belschimdt," Arthur calls back as they walk out, all of them, together, England France America flanking Canada like a contingent around the youngest nation. "Your brother will need it a lot more than you do."

* * *

><p>Berlin: Blockade<p>

Berlin is dirty, dirty, dirty. And broken.

Grime lines the streets, coats the crumbling walls and buildings like so much black ivy. And, as Matthew walks through the streets, they come to him - tattered children in tattered clothes, pleading with bandage-wrapped hands for _geld, bitte, Herr. _Bitte, Herr.

He smiles at them, offers them what money he has in his pockets, hands the coins over with the candy bars Alfred sent in earlier that day and wraps them around small hands to sweet choruses of _danke, Herr, danke. _And as the children scamper away, Matthew lets the smile linger a little longer on his face, a few seconds more of façade cheer to ward away the sadness.

"Makes you happy, doesn't it?"

Matthew whirled around.

"P-Prussia?"

"One and only," Prussia replied, raising a laconic hand. But despite the casualness of the gesture, there is a coldness in red eyes, the cold of Russia's winter in the warm air.

"Canada, isn't it?" and at his name, Matthew starts, blinks slowly but Prussia - in one swift move - has already jumped off the wall he was sitting on, and is sauntering towards him.

"Think it's fun, don't you?" Prussia asked, slowly brushing the dirt off his blue uniform, red eyes so close Matthew can see their pale lashes. "Playing the hero, watching my brother's ministers beg?"

"No - no…"

"What then?" Prussia asks, and again, Matthew cannot help but notice how close he is to the other nation, even as Prussia's red eyes narrow and turn cruel. "Here to gloat?

Look at poor Prussia, all alone, desolate -"

"No!" Matthew replies, and is surprised by how loud his voice is. "N-no, I'm here to -to -"

"What?"

"To help," Matthew whispers, averting his eyes from accusing red ones. "I-I heard about everything from Alfred, and I thought - I thought I should send help, because I - I thought you might have needed it -"

"I didn't," Prussia replies flatly. "I'm far too awesome to need any of _your _help. But," he adds, and when Matthew looks up, he sees that the anger has gone from Prussia's eyes, "thanks for the sentiment."

"Y-you're welcome."

"Shit, kid, stop stuttering," Prussia says, and despite its ever-present martial tone, there is a gentleness to his voice. "I'm not going to kill you, you know? Okay, so I was kind of a bitch last time, but last time was different - "

"I know."

"Oh, _do you__,_little Canada?" Prussia asks, and suddenly all the gentleness is gone from his voice. "_Do _you?"

And Matthew nods, a series of quick gestures made from fear.

"I - I know. They were going to split you up from your brother, and America kept on talking about how it wasn't fair, how the other nations were going too far -"

"He talked," Prussia said, and his voice is calmer now, somehow subdued. "But then he shut up - for the first time in a couple hundred years, I think. Fourteen Points, my ass."

Matthew didn't say anything, and for a while, neither does Prussia.

"C'mon," Prussia says, finally, extending a hand out to the younger nation; Matthew hesitates for a moment, then takes it when Prussia _tsks _impatiently, "let's get a drink."

"A drink?"

"Yeah. Shit, kid, you grew up with _Kirkland - _you ought to know they are."

Matthew is silent.

Prussia sighs.

"Lighten up, kid. I don't bite. At least," he adds, and there is that _smile _again, sword-point sharp and Crusader bright, "not without provocation."

So they get a drink. Talk, alcohol taking away the edge from Matthew's nervousness. And in the morning, leave. Forget about each other for a couple of years.

At least, that was what Matthew thought.

XXX

It is three am in the morning when Prussia comes knocking at Canada's hotel door.

Half-asleep, Matthew mutters something into his pillow that might have been _just a moment, please, _reaches on the table for his glasses. Yawning, pushing Kumajiro off of him, he slowly stands up, pads to open the door -

And then stops, freezes as he sees Prussia there.

"Hey," Prussia says, raising a hand.

"Oh my God," is Matthew's response.

Prussia shrugs, the movement showing exposed bone through tattered blue cloth. "Just got a little cut up. I'm fine, though."

Which is kind of countered by the bruises on the other nation's neck and the bloodstains on his clothes and the fact that, when Prussia finally tires of Matthew's gaping and pushes his way inside the room, he faints dead away.

For a few moments, Matthew can only stare, and then instinct takes over.

Bandages. Bandages. And iodine and rubbing alcohol and splints to set the bones -

Matthew bites his lip, then walks over for the phone.

* * *

><p>Ottawa<p>

When Prussia wakes up, the first thing he does is blink twice, then leap out of bed.

Thankfully, however, he doesn't make it far - only to the kitchen, where the sight of the bloodied nation actually _walking _startles Matthew so badly he nearly burns the pancakes he is making - before collapsing. "Prussia!" Matthew exclaims, pancakes forgotten as he rushes over to the fallen nation.

"I'm - fine," Prussia grates out between clenched teeth. "I'm - far too - awesome to -"

"To be walking, for one," Matthew chides, kneeling down and examining gently removing Prussia's fingers from his side. He winches when he sees that Prussia has reopened his wounds.

"Come on," Matthew says, and is surprised both at Prussia's lack of protest when Matthew helps him up and at how _light _the other nation has become, "let's get you somewhere back to bed, eh? I'll bring you breakfast."

Prussia shook his head, refusing to lie down even when Canada drops him onto the bed. "I can't - my people -"

"You can hardly walk," Matthew pointed out, gently unwrapping the bloodied bandages from Prussia's side. "I'm sure your people will be fine for a little while."

"Not with _him _there," Prussia hisses, and there is fire in his eyes as he says it, fire and Crusader fury and Matthew thinks, sadly, that if there is one thing nations are completely selfless for, it is their people.

"You can't help them, now," Matthew says quietly.

"And says who?" Prussia shoots back. "I've been through worse - I fought against _all of them _with Old Fritz - "

"Yes," Matthew says, "but Ivan stopped, that time. Hold still," he says, dipping his cloth in iodine, "this might hurt a little."

Prussia is absolutely still, face soldier stoic as Matthew dabs the iodine on the blood, but Matthew can feel his muscles tense under the touch of the antiseptic.

"There," Matthew says, when he is done and fresh bandages cover Prussia's wounds. "Don't move too much, and they should heal just fine." He smiles, briefly, meets wary eyes. "I'll get breakfast."

XXX

The first time Prussia eats pancakes, he stops after the first bite, puts down the fork and stares at Matthew.

"What?" Matthew asks, fighting back the urge to check if he has maple syrup on his face. "Is something wrong? I could always make something else -"

"You," Prussia says, picking up the fork once more and pointing it at Matthew (ironical déjà vu, and Matthew can't help but flinch a little at it). "Kirkland. Jones."

"Yes?" Matthew asked, puzzled about why his brother and former mentor were being brought into the conversation.

"Kirkland can't boil water. Jones deep-fries grease. How the hell'd you learn to cook with those two around?"

Matthew blinked, once, twice. "Well, you know, Francis helped raise me, too -"

"Then why the hell did _Francis _never offer me any of this when I went off?" Prussia asked, waving his fork in the air in (mock?) fury. And Matthew can't help smile because, with his fork and his pancakes and the canary that had flown in yesterday and which was now chirping on his head, Prussia looked for all the world like a sulking child.

"I don't know," Matthew says, forcing himself to not laugh, because laughing at former Teutonic Knights would surely have been suicide. "Haven't you had crepes before?"

"Yes, but _these," _Prussia said, pointing to the pancakes, "crepes are okay, and all that, but _pancakes -"_

There was a look on his face on his face that neared nirvana, and, again, Matthew cannot help the smile spreading on his face.

"Eat your pancakes," he tells the other nation. "They're better when they're warm."

XXX

Prussia stays for a couple of days, stays until the bruises fade and the bleeding stops, scars beginning to form where gashes were, fragile peace taking the place of riots. He is loud and over-exuberant with a tendency to proclaim everything about thhimself 'awesome' and overexert himself every other day, but Matthew doesn't mind.

Prussia notices.

"Hey, kid?" he asks one day, and Matthew (on instinct, for he knows by experience now that the other nation would never admit to pain) looks over with incipient concern to see red eyes intense but - and this is a strange emotion for Prussia - mildly confused.

"Yes?" Matthew asks, by now familiar enough with the other nation to know that this was beyond a matter of needing more maple syrup.

"Why don't you kick me out already?" Prussia asks, as always, jumping straight to the heart of matters.

Matthew blinks, but only once.

"I mean," Prussia continues, picking up his fork and waving it through the air (involuntary tic, Matthew knows by now; Prussia always seemed to need something sharp in his hands), "I've been kind of a bitch for kind of a while here, but you never seem to get all pissy-angry like everyone else would. I mean, I know my awesomeness is hard to resist, but seriously, kid, what gives?"

Matthew considers that one for a while, softly chews a piece of pancake while Prussia taps out an impatient rhythm on white china. "I don't know," he says finally, and knows that is a beyond inadequate answer, and so hastily tries to elaborate. "I guess I'm kind of used to it, is all, with Alfred and everyone - I mean," realizing too late that he had inadvertently insulted his guest, "not that you're any bother, I wasn't meaning to -"

"Kid," Prussia says, holding up a hand up for silence, "I am the bitchiest bastard of a houseguest the world's ever known - hell, even _Braginski _better know that by now. It's why people love me," he says, giving Matthew a wink as he cut into his pancakes with bandaged fingers. "So spill: what's a sweet kid like you helping a fucker like me?"

"I - I don't know," Matthew mutters into his pancakes.

"Again with the caveat of 'not going to bite your head off,'" Prussia said, hitting the bottle of maple syrup to extract the last drops out. "Spill."

Matthew hesitates, then does.

"It's - just, well, I couldn't _not _help you, could I? I mean," he adds, back treading before he could offend Prussia any further, "not that you need help and all, Prussia, I know you're far too awesome to -"

Prussia raises a hand, then, and Matthew is silent, bites his lip in worry as the other nation quietly finishes chewing.

"First," Prussia says, waving his fork in the air, "you need to stop _apologizing, _kid. How's the UN going to take you seriously if you cry after every half-way decent idea you give them? Second," he adds, bringing his fork down in perfect downward thrust into his pancakes, "I don't mind, really. If I had a problem bumming off of you, I sure as hell wouldn't have come to your hotel door. So shut up about that, too," and out of instinct, Matthew flinches before he realizes that the phrase is affectionate.

"Third," Prussia says, using the tines of his fork to cut the pancakes into smaller pieces, "you don't have to keep calling me Prussia. We're not at some damn sham of a treaty meeting anymore. It's Gilbert, kid," he says, not noticing that there is pancake on the end of his fork as he waves it about, "Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"I know," Matthew says, smiling tentatively. "Matthew Williams."

"Kid, I _know_," Gilbert says, and smiles at the shock in Matthew's eyes.

XXX

Prussia visits a couple of times over the years, visits for pancakes and drinks and occasional mischief. There is always a smile in his eyes and a smirk on his face and a box of lagers in his hands.

But Matthew notices.

Notices the small cuts, the bruises, the times it looks like Gilbert has to limp into his house. Notices the tears and dirt in his blue uniform, notices how, every time he visits, there is a scarf around Gilbert's neck, too tight. As if there not to keep him warm but to keep him in line.

Matthew doesn't mention that he notices, of course - would be impolite, impolitic, and he is afraid that if he does, it would anger Gilbert and that the sporadic visits would stop.

And even when Gilbert comes to his house dead drunk, uniform shabbier than ever and iron cross askew as he rambles on about something about Ivan and a wall, Matthew says nothing, only gently leads the other nation to the sofa as he prepares the pancake batter and one of the hangover cures that had always seemed to work on Arthur. He listens to Gilbert, nods at opportune places, but his mind is far, far away, lost in snow and tanks and red and gold. Does not even notice that Gilbert has drifted off to sleep, head nearly buried in his pancakes, does not notice for a long, long time.

The next day, Gilbert leaves and never comes back.

He leaves a note, though, and - after blinking a few times behind his glasses - Matthew throws it into the furnace, puts on his jacket, and calls for a plane to Berlin.

The next day, work begins on the Berlin Wall.

* * *

><p>Berlin: Wall<p>

"You don't fucking _listen, _do you, kid?"

It is the first thing Gilbert says to him, and Matthew has to blink a few times before realizing that there is no anger in the words, only worry.

And no wonder.

Gilbert looks _awful. _There are cuts on all over his arms, and his uniform is little more than rags at this point. And the blood -

It all reminds Matthew of a bad memory, of blood and bone and bandages. Of July.

Matthew takes a few tentative steps forward, and Gilbert backs away, red eyes feral, wary, though his boots are gone and there are bandages on his feet -

It is horrible, Matthew thinks, horrible, as he gently eases the knife out of Gilbert's fingers, and for a moment he feels that hot flash of anger towards Ivan that must have surely driven his brother all these years.

Matthew feels Gilbert tense, start to back away again though there is nothing but wall behind him -

And then collapses, fall to his knees, hand clutched to his side as he coughs. And, for a few moments, Matthew can only stare, a deep, deep sorrow in his eyes and in his chest.

And then Matthew helps him up, and Gilbert mutters something that might have been thanks if Matthew had not known better, and Matthew smiles and offers to make pancakes.

XXX

It is the fifth day when the tanks come rumbling through the streets, the fifth day when officers come pounding at the door.

The fifth day when Matthew stands in the doorway, flashes his permit as Gilbert dozes inside. The fifth day when he stares out the street, watches the Volkspolizei march away, before going inside to check on Gilbert, who even now is weak from blood loss (and isn't this strange, Matthew thinks with a wry smile, being the strong one here) and boil herbal tea and make pancakes for breakfast.

And for a few weeks, that is the extent of their friendship, Gilbert allowing himself to be healed while Matthew prepares pancakes and bandages.

Then Trudeau calls, and Canada calls. And Matthew sighs and goes, because if there was one thing nations are completely selfless for, it is their people.

And then they don't see each other, not for a long, long time. Not until Laporte is found dead and kidnappers release Cross, not until the whole October Crisis is over, a lingering nightmare that Matthew tries to forget.

And when Matthew does try to return, Ivan stops him, tells him with that eerie not-quite smile of his that it would be better if comrade Matvei left off visiting his friend for a while, da?

And no one is more surprised when Matthew pushes past Ivan and the KGB, shoves his permit in the guard's face and demands a train to Berlin.

XXX

Matthew visits, a few times more. Brings pancakes and warmth and bandages and food for the lost Berlin children. Brings a few daylight moments in the fading light.

XXX

The wall is coming down.

"It was inevitable, you know," Gilbert says, and laughs softly before it turns into a cough. Holds up a hand before Matthew can protest, smiles that smile that speaks of mischief and soldiers' kings and hell-to-anyone-who-opposed-him. "Inevitable," he says, as he takes a sip of coffee to calm his breathing.

"Inevitable," Canada muses, and stares at his coffee, warm once-luxury.

"Yeah," Gilbert says, and shakes some sugar into his palm to feed to Gilbird. "No need to get so down about it."

Canada doesn't say anything.

Because he knows what will happen when the wall comes down. He knows. He has been here long enough to see the Ottomans fall, long enough to see when people forgot and empires fell -

"They're West's people, anyway," Gilbert says, and he could be talking about the weather, could be talking the economy or the political sector, could be talking about anything but his death.

Matthew bit his lip.

"Way I figure it," Gilbert says (and again with the fork, the flashing metal, Teutonic Knights and Frederick William the First in one clean motion of tines against plate), "it'll be better for them. West's got more money, more food. They'll be happier."

"But," Matthew protests, "if Germany unifies, then you'll -"

"Die?" Gilbert asks, and there it is again, that smile, that smile. So easy, so calm. "Yeah," Gilbert says, and takes a bite of his pancakes. "I know."

There is a feeling building in Matthew's chest, a feeling like when Alfred declared independence and Matthew had realized that his brother would not survive the attempt, a feeling like when Arthur had told him to get ready, get ready, there's a war building -

"Matt?" Gilbert frowns, tilts his head to one side. And then his eyes soften, turn charcoal gentle. "Hey, kid - don't cry. Hell, this is better, you know? Prussia's too awesome to go the slow-fading-away route. Something like this, bam, drama - something they'll remember, that's better, isn't it? And besides," he added, patting Gilbird on the head, "my people will be happy."

And that is it. All Gilbert will give in way of explanation or apology.

And Matthew understands, he does, he does. Understands the reason that nations are so completely devoted to their people, understands that it is because a nation is not land but people. And when people forget - when people lose sight of their nation -

Prussia's people had been forgetting for a very long time. Prussia had been fading away for a very long time now.

Matthew had noticed.

Gilbert suddenly stands then, military graceful even in his abruptness. Looks at his watch, battered and old and Canadian-made.

"Eight sharp," he says, grinning at Matthew. "And a Monday, too. Time to raise some hell for that useless shit of a chairman of mine."

Matthew nods, knows. Familiar from routine, stands up, ready to leave -

But Gilbert stops him then, wraps thin but strong fingers around Matthew's wrist, and smiles.

"I wasn't leaving yet," he teases, and Matthew blushes, mutters something apologetic -

Then stops, freezes, as Gilbert's lips meet his.

Gilbert's lips are chapped, but soft, gentle and the kiss is brief, Catholic chaste. But it lasts long enough for Matthew to notice that Gilbert tastes of Kona and sugar.

And then it is over, and Gilbert is drawing back, letting go, laughter in his eyes and on his lips.

"Wanted to do that for a long time," he says, grinning. "Thank God you taste better than Elizaveta."

Which is _such _a Gilbert statement that Matthew chokes for a while, which only makes Gilbert laugh all the harder.

And then he is gone, gone with a wave and a smile and a gentle reminder to "take care, kid. Take care."

XXX

A few months later, a small canary struggles through the snow, taps twice on the glass.

And Matthew opens the window, smiles as he lets the little bird inside.

"Hi, Gilbird," he says quietly, smiling as rummages through his drawers for sugar packets. "Brought me something, didn't you?"

Gilbird chirps, pecks at Matthew's fingers for food. Matthew laughs, pets the little bird with two fingers, the way Gilbert had taught him to. Then, gently, he removes the iron cross that is tied around the canary's leg. Turns it over in his hands, gazes at it for a long, long time.

Then Gilbird chirps in irritation and Kumajiro bumbles into the room, all hunger and forgetfulness, and Matthew smiles, ties Gilbert's cross around his neck, and goes downstairs to make pancakes.

* * *

><p>Historical notes:<p>

Treaty of Versailles - ended WWI. However, it also put a huge burden on Germany and essentially separated East Prussia from the rest of Germany.

Berlin Blockade - basically, the Soviets prevented parts of Berlin from getting any outside supplies, so the US and England sent in food via airlifts. And, yes, America did send candy bars.

Berlin Uprising of 1953 - on July 16, Berlin construction workers rose in riot. The Soviet-run German government (including the East German police, the Volkspolizei) quickly crushed the initial riots, but protest continued in other parts of the German Democratic Republic(GDR)/Prussia for quite a while afterwards. Because Prussia is like that.

October Crisis: two Canadian government officials (Cross and Laporte) are kidnapped by Quebec separatists. Laporte is found dead not long after, and Cross is finally released after 60 days of negotiation. During this time, Pierre Trudeau was Canada's Prime Minister.

Coffee Crisis: in the late seventies, coffee prices rose extravagantly, and for a while, mischkaffee (vile 'mixed coffee') was used in many places instead of real coffee in the GDR.

Frederick William I: the 'Soldier King,' he essentially made Prussia the militaristic king he is today. Frederick William II, or Frederick the Great, was his son and fought against basically everyone and their mother in the Seven Year's War, which ended when Russia's new tsar decided not to fight.

I know there are probably still Prussian nationalists, but seeing as most people in the GDR wanted to reunify, it's probably okay to say they thought of themselves as more German than Prussian. Plus, it would be inconvenient for this death-fic if Prussia didn't actually, you know, die.

If there are any major historical fails in this story or, God forbid, spelling/grammar errors that are _not _for the sake of poetic prose, please alert me. Danke!


End file.
